


Papa Don't Preach

by blcwriter



Series: Write a New Alphabet [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, BAMF!Sheriff, F/M, Gen, Language, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Slash, Rape/Non-con References, Underage Sex, ruthless!Sheriff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:45:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He replayed all the pathetic bits of his self-revelations from his drunken babblings to the sheriff over again in his mind, from the man’s seemingly sympathetic “If anyone had told me werewolves, it would have explained a hell of a lot,” to his playing his own dead wife card to get Chris to talk about Victoria, damnit.  Damnit.  Victoria.  Gerard.  Kate.  All of them.  So stupid.  Bullheaded.  Bloodthirsty, thinking they’d live forever, had some right to.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Why did he have to love such stupid people, who didn’t understand the difference between honor, vengeance, violence and murder?  Why did his little girl have to understand all these things, and love a werewolf?</i></p><p> </p><p>--</p><p>Chris Argent hadn't really thought the sheriff was stupid, had he?  The problem was he hadn't thought about it at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Papa Don't Preach

He woke with the taste of tinfoil and burnt sugar in his mouth, and the full noonday sun in his eyes. The hangover banging behind his forehead was worse than wolfsbane poisoning.

Oh.

Fuck. 

When he managed to actually open his eyes, that and stop puking into the trashcan someone had considerately placed next to the bed, he saw: one bottled water, some aspirin, and a flash drive.

He downed the water and the aspirin, but only because he figured he’d need them to face whatever was on the flash drive.

His phone messages, as he listened to them (once he’d located his phone, intact, apparently untapped, sitting with his unrifled wallet and keys on his hall table, like he’d placed them there himself, as if he’d been sober when he’d come in) were even more sobering. Made his hangover and churning, roiling nausea, his full-scale worry start to boil into panic before he tamped it back down because no matter what secrets he’d blurted, no matter what pathetic whining he’d revealed about himself last evening, no matter under what influence—the fact still seemed to be he’d gotten off with a warning, because so had his men. 

All of them. Every single damned one. Traffic stops. False calls on domestics, damned kids these days, you know how they are, pranking 911 and clogging up the phone lines. Trees in backyards called in as marijuana, sorry about that, but you know how the DEA is, we don’t inspect it, they’ll have our ass in a sling if it turns out to be hash, and maybe you should prune your privet sir, make it look like you haven’t got something to hide, that’s a mighty fine elk head on that wall there, do you hunt? Concealed carry permit’s expired, I’m going to have to ask you to hand that weapon over, oh, so sorry, sir, it must have been a computer glitch, we’ll fix that in the morning, we’ll just hold on to these at the station in the meantime, you know how it is, procedural stuff, the county judge is a real stiff about procedure, though, we don’t take these now while we get that glitch fixed.

Which was scary as all fuck, the full arm of the law down on every single damned one of Chris’ hunters. 

Every damned one, even ones Allison had never met, ones that hadn’t ever crossed territorial lines, ones he’d only spoken to on burners and never written to by email and yet, somehow, they’d all been paid some kind of visit.

Last week, there had been a pack of alphas ready to ravage the town. Three days ago, even, Allison was still refusing to return his calls, staying at Lydia’s house and spending far too much time with that girl and the Stilinski kid, but at least not McCall—but now. 

Things had undergone an apparent sea change, and no one had told him. It was being made abundantly clear to him that any right he thought he had to be told was--waning. 

Eclipsed. Hah. 

He’d been waiting last night at the bar for his in-person reports—it was the last thing he recalled without the aid of what was on that flash drive—and instead, he’d been schooled. 

He pulled into a space in front of the station. Rested his head on the steering wheel for just a moment. 

Contemplated if there was any way he could ever get away with retiring. And then manned up and walked in, to figure out what the hell he was going to have to do to deal with this newest reckoning. Jesus.

\--

Cindy smiled at him like she bore no suspicion at all, and yet she held up a finger. “Chris Argent is here,” she said into the phone, motioning for Chris to sit in one of the universally shitty wire-frame chairs that populated county law enforcement offices across the country.

He sat. 

He waited. 

He waited some more. 

His ass grew numb, like his hands, like the back of his neck, like his forehead with his renewing panic attack and he told himself again to _calm the fuck down_ because he was not going to let this town go to the dogs and let Allison get dragged into crazy council shit, even if right now she hated his guts. And maybe rightfully so.

He replayed all the pathetic bits of his self-revelations from his drunken babblings to the sheriff over again in his mind, from the man’s seemingly sympathetic “If anyone had told me goddamned werewolves, it would have explained a hell of a lot,” to his playing his own dead wife card to get Chris to talk about Victoria, damnit. Damnit. Fucking Victoria. Gerard. Kate. All of them. So stupid. Bullheaded. Bloodthirsty, thinking they’d live forever, had some right to. Christ shit on a shingle. 

Why did he have to love such stupid people, who didn’t understand the difference between honor, vengeance, violence and murder? Why did his little girl have to understand all these things, and love a fucking werewolf?

The sheriff had played him like a fucking fiddle. Gotten him to spill almost every damned secret, though no doubt his own kid and fucking Hale had played their parts, and truth was—he’d underestimated Stiles Stilinski too long. And Derek Hale. Well. There was a bad phoenix analogy there, somewhere. Not that Hale would appreciate any comparisons involving fire at all.

“Chris,” the sheriff said, a calm smile on his face. He was dressed in jeans and the department’s polo shirt, a baseball cap on and his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “C’mon back.” His Glock was holstered in its usual place. Chris had never actually seen him fire the thing, he realized now, but the man had to be a decent shot. If not a hunter, still, a decent shot. 

He closed the door, motioned to the chair in front of his desk—more shittily-padded office rental rejects, but it wasn’t like Beacon Hills was a luxury place, county seat notwithstanding.

He should have stayed in Chicago.

The sheriff—did he even know the man’s first name? he didn’t think he’d ever heard it, or his son’s, either, weird—looked at him for a long moment before he spoke. 

“So. I think we could have the stereotypical movie climax threat conversation here after we get past the part where I slipped you a mickey and I could threaten your child just like I know you and your family have hurt and threatened mine, multiple times, but I’m not that douchebag, and I don’t hurt children. Ever. Though if your father’s body shows up I will _dice_ it just to make sure he’s dead, and if we need to have that conversation any further than this, you need to tell me. I think the fact that you’re already here means we both know I’ve made my point. So I’m going to just show you one thing.”

He pulled a framed photo down from the wall next to his desk—the whole room was littered with town memorabilia, diplomas, licenses, crayoned thank-yous, little league and Babe Ruth and Pop Warner pictures of teams past and present. This was a Babe Ruth team from. 

Not this year. 

“Funny, how he’s still got those same buck teeth,” the sheriff said, nodding at the picture, “but I guess you can’t take a werewolf to the dentist, huh?” What? Oh. There.

Derek Hale, in the back row. He looked about as gangly as McCall did, now, which would make sense, since he’d have been no more than sixteen, wasn’t that was the cutoff for Babe Ruth, right? Chris looked at the sign in the front row, the coaches, the old sheriff—and his head pounded all over, because this was. He’d never met the younger wolves those few months they’d been in town. The Hales had been—insular, even if the kids had gone to school, and he’d always been taught to stay the hell away, so he had. 

“That team was going to win the championships that summer, you know, but then their captain and star pitcher’s house burnt down and he and his sister moved away and the team kind of… fell apart. It was too bad. That kid really loved baseball. That and his girlfriend. Of course, he was a looker, even with the funny teeth, no wonder a girl a couple years older than him would show an interest. Even if he had to hide it from his parents. They were kind of … protective, I understand.”

Chris stared at the picture for a bit longer, and then the sheriff tapped the edge of the picture. A young woman—tall, blonde, sexy, _his sister_ stood off to the side of the diamond, along with a group of other miscellaneous people. 

Why would his sister be hanging out at a kids’ baseball diamond? Hanging around Derek Hale? 

Only then did the sheriff’s words really sink in. And Kate.

Fucking Kate.

Sixteen year-old Derek Hale smiled his stupid, dumb teenaged smile, goofy and buck-toothed and clearly pleased in the way all teenaged boys were that his girlfriend had showed up to his baseball game and—Chris lost his non-existent breakfast into the barrel Stilinski kicked out from the side of his desk. When Chris was done puking, Stilinski continued talking. 

“Not that Derek has told me, of course, or that I’d bring up such a painful subject when he’s still got those kids to teach how to anchor. But I’m not the sheriff for nothing, and my kid’s no slouch in the research department. Argent plus fire plus werewolves plus a new alpha with a thing for consent does tend to add up to child molestation, I’m not an idiot, Chris, and I don’t need to compartmentalize about the same shit you do, although after realizing I could keep up with you last night made me realize I'd really better cut back on the booze.”

Chris wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked up. Stilinski looked as calm as—well. Analogies weren’t Chris’ thing. Hunting was. Had been. Who the fuck knew.

“If I take Allison…”

“Your grand hunter’s council will just send someone worse, I’m aware.” Stilisnki took the photograph back, settled it on the wall, squared it with lean, competent hands, and sat at his desk. Regarded Chris. Seemed to make up his mind about something.

He pushed his glasses up his nose, and tapped the side of his face. His voice was calm. Quiet. 

“Nah. I changed my mind.” He grinned, briefly, and it reminded Chris of nothing so much as the sheriff’s own kid. “I don’t fucking care about your fucking code. I don’t fucking care about your so-called truce with the Hale pack, and Scott McCall and your daughter are included in that, all those kids are, because they’re kids and they’re stupid and they don’t know any better, and Hale is trying to do right by them and Stiles, too, God help us all. So, here’s the part where I play the righteous man in the movie, but I’m not fucking righteous. I’m just a pissed-off father who happens to be the sheriff.”

He was still smiling as he said, “This is my town. Mine. Everyone here is under my protection, down to the last werelizard, witch and alpha or omega werewolf, down to the last human, every innocent kid and hunter and undead uncle ex-alpha and whatever other supernatural shit blows through this place, because when I took this job, it was because I knew anyone could choose to be bad or choose to be good, and the fact that they have fangs or fucking fairy wings doesn’t make a goddamned bit of difference to the fact that they still get to choose, and I want to protect them while they make those decisions. I catch you or any one of your hunters interfering with that, stalking any of them, getting in anyone’s supernatural face? Let’s just say you’re not the only one who knows how to make something look like a wild animal attack.”

He nodded then, said, “You can go now,” and pulled a folder off the top of a pile to his right, inspecting it with the disinterest of someone used to pushing too much paper. “Erica will provide you with updated emergency pack contact numbers and neutral meeting locations on the way out. I’ve spoken with Allison, too, told her it was time to stop running. She’ll be back at your place by the end of the week. I’ve taken the liberty of recommending her the name of Stiles’ therapist, the one he saw when his mother died, and she’s been polite enough not to spit in my face. Not that it’ll do any of them all that much good if they can’t talk about oh, hey, werewolves!” and the sheriff actually made jazz hands at that, “but Derek also tells me there’s a witch in Sacramento who has a counseling degree who accepts health insurance who he’s heard tell is good, so perhaps she’d be better, but Stiles seemed to like Dr. Rama enough. Who the fuck knows if he was just saying that, though, because he didn’t want me spending the money on something he thought wasn’t going to get better. If this place wasn’t Hellmouth central, I’d make him go back, but he’s got motherfucking werewolves crawling in his window at all hours like front doors are anathema and god knows that pack cuddling thing is platonic, weird, but platonic, so I suppose at least he’s got friends. Pardon my French, this is a little stressful.” 

“I’ll talk to her about it,” Chris said. He’d talk to her about anything she’d allow. He swallowed then. There was a lot to swallow.

He swallowed again. Stressful was right.

“What was it you said about my father? And … Stiles?”

The sheriff blinked at him. Gritted his teeth. Drew in a breath. Let it out. “Your father beat the shit out of my kid in your basement the night he … well. No body, so I’m not going to rule anything out, I watch sci-fi movies, thank you. But if you ever touch a hair on my child’s head, I will shoot first and take good care of Allison after, and tell her the truth when I tell her that I killed you with no crisis of conscience.”

He could hear his blood roaring in his ears, remembered Stiles’ voice, mocking as he’d slammed the kid against the door and the kid had confronted him about Kate burning the Hales out, the way he’d tossed Stilinski and Whittemore around like they were meatsacks because they ran with wolves. His father would not have been gentler.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

The sheriff nodded. “Yeah.” He rubbed his hands over his forehead. “Me too. Get out.” 

The leggy, curvy, toothy—very toothy—fanged—blonde who was sitting at reception was not the same girl who’d been there when he came in. She had bit back a snarl, but in the empty office, that smile was a challenge, and he. He dropped his eyes. 

She was wearing a B.H.P.D. polo with _Erica_ embroidered on it, the fabric straining over her chest, and her hair was pulled back into a demure braid that had Allison’s hairstyling all over it—even if the sparkling ribbon woven throughout wasn’t one he’d teased Allison for as being too prone to giving away her location. 

He vaguely recognized the girl as part of Hale’s pack—which meant, of course, that if she’d been within a quarter mile, she’d have heard their whole conversation—but then he took a second look, and realized she was one on the ones his father….

“Here you are, Mister Argent,” she said, sliding a plain manila folder toward him.

“Thank you,” he paused. “Miss…”

“Reyes,” she answered. “Erica Reyes.”

He looked up, nodded. “That’s a lovely braid, Miss Reyes. My compliments to who ever helped you with your hairstyle.”

The girl smiled, slowly, then nodded. “Thanks. I’ll tell her.” She looked at him for a bit longer, her sleepy doe eyes unblinking, and then her computer pinged. 

Her gaze flicked. “Excuse me, I have to get this.”

He nodded. He supposed it was time for all of them to get back to work. Shoving his hands in his pocket, he rolled back his shoulders and headed out.

**Author's Note:**

> So far, this is taking place in chronological order post season 2. I may start jumping around, time-wise, because that's how the muse is striking, but I wanted to get this particular story out of the way before I started doing future fic and speculating about season 3.
> 
> I realize so far this series has been dark, dark, dark, and I've only been able to hint here at some growing pack fluff (I am a wholehearted fan of the sheriff facepalming at everyone in Stiles' bed and just ordering a king-size because he's the sheriff and can tell wolf cuddles from sex, thank you, and I need, need, need, the TW ladies to be epic friends), so thank you to everyone so far who's read along and commented and left kudos. I'm working on some Halloween candy for you. : )


End file.
